Wishes and Regrets
by SarahTee
Summary: What happened next at the end of TGG. Rated T to be safe. Warning: Character Death.
1. Wishes

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, sad as that it. I wish I owned it, but since I've written this, I guess it's just as well for our boys that I don't...**

**Author's Note: This is my first ever attempt at writing Sherlock fic, so please be kind! I hope I've gotten characterisation at least okay, if not good, but any advice would be gratefully accepted :-D**

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><p>In the end, John Watson wished he'd never met Sherlock Holmes.<p>

xxxXXXxxx

When John had nodded to Sherlock to shoot the bomb, he'd known exactly what he was going to do.

The military mind-set he'd been trained to took hold as he watched Sherlock lower the gun, and he braced himself against the wall as Sherlock's hold tightened, his knuckles whitening a little at the pressure.

He didn't dare chance a look at Moriarty, despite the overwhelming curiosity to see what the consulting criminal thought of this plan.

It was risky, but if he timed it perfectly…

Sherlock's trigger-finger began to tighten, and with a practised eye he watched the slow movement until it reached the point he was waiting for and sprang.

He crashed into Sherlock while the gun was still recoiling from the shot, hitting so hard he thought he might've cracked a few ribs, and sent them both flying into the depths of the pool.

The heat from the explosion seared against his back for an instant before he was completely submerged, and he kicked swiftly to push them both lower as he clung tightly to his stunned flatmate.

He grinned at the wide-eyed look the other man was giving him, a look which told John that for once he'd managed to surprise the consulting detective.

He wasn't sure what he thought about the fact that Sherlock was surprised by his tackle. Had he really thought John had agreed to a plan that would kill them both? Had he not realised the way out that John had seen?

He shook his head and kept swimming – there'd be time to figure that out later, for now he needed to figure out the safest way out of the pool for them.

The snipers might have survived, might still be lying in wait. Moriarty himself could still be waiting – somehow John didn't think he'd be so easily killed. Far more likely was the chance that the building above them could, at any second, come down on top of them, and with that in mind John twisted and started pulling Sherlock towards the side of the pool he'd noticed had the nearest fire-exit.

He ignored the sharp pain in his chest, ignored the way his head was starting to feel light as his vision closed in from the sides, and focused only on keeping hold of his stunned friend and getting them somewhere safe.

It wasn't until they collapsed to the ground outside the burning wreck of a building that John realised something was wrong.

He still couldn't breathe.

He had felt his knees buckle and Sherlock sagged slightly under his weight, lowering them to the ground.

Sherlock's hands were red where he'd been holding him, and he watched with a strange sense of detachment as the taller man ripped off his jacket shakily – which was odd, Sherlock shaking? That wasn't right…and why were his hands red? Was the younger man injured? Had John missed something in his rush to get them out? – and pressed it against John's chest.

Lifting his head a little, which was harder than it should've been, he saw that the blue fabric was darkening at an astonishing pace as it was pressed painfully against his red shirt.

Wait, red? Hadn't he been wearing a brown shirt?

Slowly, far too slowly, it dawned on him that Sherlock hadn't been injured – he had. What he'd thought had been ribs cracking had probably been a lucky hit by one of the snipers as he leapt for Sherlock.

He was losing blood far too quickly, and every breath was more of a struggle than the last – this wasn't a glancing hit…no nasty scar and sent on his way this time.

As Sherlock pressed desperately down on the wound in his chest, John looked up and watched panicked grey eyes as they locked on his own.

Sherlock was watching the life drain out of him on the cold damp ground, and John saw the second the genius realised there was nothing to be done.

The eyes above him hardened, growing cold and angry and terrifying.

As the world darkened and he felt his chest shudder to draw what he knew would be his final breaths, John saw his mistake, and he wished he'd been just a little smarter, a little quicker, a little more _Sherlock_…

Lestrade's words the day they'd met ran through his head.

_*Sherlock is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.*_

They'd both miscalculated.

They'd gotten it so very, very wrong.

Lestrade and John had both thought only of how good Sherlock could become if he learnt to care.

Moriarty's threat echoed in his mind.

_*I'll burn you. I'll burn the __**heart**__ out of you.*_

John had given Sherlock a heart, and now it would destroy him.

Because before John, Sherlock hadn't really cared – he'd taken cases, helped the police, saved lives, all because it was entertaining, interesting…a way to keep from being bored.

John had made Sherlock care – he'd woken emotions Sherlock didn't know existed, didn't know how to handle, and now…

Now those emotions would twist Sherlock into a monster, because John Watson was dying – he was taking away the only thing Sherlock had learnt to care about. He was leaving him with nothing.

Grabbing tightly to Sherlock's arm with the last of his strength, John tried to speak, choking on the blood that filled his mouth instead.

His last seconds were spent trying to convey with a look how sorry he was, how he knew what he'd done, and how he wished he could take it back.

The cold, empty shell of his friend leaned quietly over him with a hard, blank expression.

xxxXXXxxx

In the end, John Watson wished he'd never met Sherlock Holmes, because Sherlock had been a great man, and John had helped destroy him.

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><p><strong>Reviews are very, very welcome...there's a second part to come for this story, and reviews always make me write quicker...just saying... :-D<strong>


	2. Regrets

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, sad as that it. I wish I owned it, but since I've written this, I guess it's just as well for our boys that I don't...**

**Author's Note: This is my first ever attempt at writing Sherlock fic, so please be kind! I hope I've gotten characterisation at least okay, if not good, but any advice would be gratefully accepted :-D**

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><p>Sherlock Holmes had finally learnt to be sorry. He was sorry he'd ever met John Watson.<p>

xxxXXXxxx

When John had nodded to Sherlock, he wondered if the doctor knew what he planned to do.

He thought he did – after all, when John had grabbed Moriarty earlier he'd been expecting to die. He'd take Moriarty out with him, and give Sherlock an escape, and he'd die to do it…

When John had killed for him only a day after they'd met, he'd been a little surprised.

Only a little, because he could see it in the doctor's eyes, in his life, in his calm at the action, he could see the absolute certainty and conviction the man had that it was the right thing to do.

Grabbing Moriarty, stopping him before he could hurt anyone else – that was the right thing to do too, in John's mind. It was worth his life.

Sherlock had wondered briefly how much of it had been because it might save him, but quickly dismissed it as unimportant. He couldn't leave – not while Moriarty could still escape, and not without John. He didn't understand why, not fully, not yet, but leaving John in danger wasn't an option – perhaps because John hadn't left him in danger when he'd had the chance before?

He's seen it in John's eyes – the defeat, the resignation – when the sniper's dot had settled on his forehead.

When John let the consulting criminal go, Sherlock was confused although he tried not to show it.

Stopping Moriarty was worth John's life, but not his?

There was no confusion now though. John was with him – they would stop Jim, and it would be worth their lives because John thought it was worth it, and Sherlock had learnt to trust John's judgement as completely as he trusted his own deductions.

Slowly he tightened his grip on the gun, lowering his aim from Moriarty to the bomb, and pulled the trigger.

The next thing he knew he was flying through the air and it took him a moment to register that he _wasn't_ being thrown by the explosion.

He barely had time to drag in a breath before they hit the water, and he watched as the world turned orange and black above them, the heat of the explosion scorching even through the protection of the water.

John's arms were wrapped tightly around him, pinning his arms to his sides in a desperate hold as he kicked to push them deeper beneath the surface.

Sherlock made a move to help only to stop when he realised that doing so brought his feet into contact with John's legs, and injuring one another or getting tangled would do them worse than no good.

As he allowed himself to be pulled along Sherlock realised that he'd completely misunderstood the doctor's intentions.

He had guessed Sherlock's plan, and he had figured out, in scant seconds, a way for them to survive it. A way that Sherlock hadn't been able to see (hadn't looked for?)…

John grinned at him briefly, and Sherlock realised that his flatmate…his friend?...would make sure he didn't forget being out-smarted by him any time soon.

Sherlock found he didn't mind the impending teasing so much, since it meant that they would both be alive.

As John twisted them around in the water Sherlock noted absently that the water around them, lit orange by the fires above, was slowly turning red. He wondered if perhaps that was why John was holding him so tight?

Had he been injured and didn't realise it yet? He didn't feel injured, but John wouldn't release him, wouldn't let him move under his own power…perhaps he was injured and in shock?

Perhaps he needed a blanket, he thought wildly as he watched the trail of red behind them grow heavier.

When John finally dragged him from the pool he pulled himself to his feet, and dragged John up alongside him.

Then he realised what he should've already noticed.

As John grasped at him and began to drag him to the door Sherlock rushed to get his arms around his friend, supporting him even as they ran outside.

When they were a safe distance from the building, Sherlock stopped, and lowered John carefully to the ground.

He'd always internally (and occasionally out loud) mocked people who claimed to experience actual physical reactions to emotional situations, but now he understood…

He understood because fear had stolen his breath, his blood ran cold like ice in his veins, and his heart seized as he looked down at the mass of bloodied and torn flesh that was John Watson's chest.

_*Exit wound,*_ his mind catalogued automatically, barely noticed, _*one shot, in through the back right shoulder.*_

He was scrabbling to pull his jacket off to try and slow down the bleeding before he even registered the idea. He carefully ignored the blood already staining the back of the jacket, blood he now realised must have sprayed onto him unnoticed as John had been hit and crashed into him almost simultaneously. It was a miracle he'd not been hit as well, as close as they'd been. The bullet must've passed within millimetres of his back.

Blood-covered hands held the jacket desperately – _*hopelessly!*_ his mind screamed – against the wound, and burning eyes watched as the fabric turned dark as it leeched up John's life-blood right in front of him.

Tears burned unshed in his eyes and he forced them back. He couldn't let John see…couldn't let him know how bad it looked…Sherlock wasn't a doctor after all, he didn't know for sure – he shouldn't risk making John think it was worse than it was.

He'd never wanted to hope for anything so badly before...

He pressed a little harder on the jacket, and his eyes darted up to meet John's.

He quickly wished they hadn't. Resignation, clear as day, shone from the army doctor's eyes. He knew gun-shot wounds. He knew how badly-off he was.

He knew he was dying.

John knew, and that meant Sherlock couldn't hope any more. If John had no hope, then Sherlock – who'd never seen the point in such fanciful thoughts before John – could have none either.

Moriarty had brought them here. Moriarty had done this.

Moriarty had killed John.

Unshed tears dried up, and Sherlock felt a cold burn settle deep in his chest.

Moriarty's threat echoed mockingly in his head.

_*I'll burn you. I'll burn the __**heart**__ out of you.*_

Before, he'd wanted to beat Moriarty. He'd wanted to be smarter, he'd wanted to _win._

Now…

Now he wanted to kill him.

He wanted to destroy him. To tear him apart and make him suffer.

To make him hurt like he'd made John hurt.

John grabbed at his hands, and coughed around the blood that choked off his words.

He looked up at Sherlock, and in his mind's eye suddenly Sherlock could see that nod again, could see the trust in John's face, the determination telling Sherlock he could pull the trigger.

Telling Sherlock he could kill him.

Sherlock had killed John, the first…the _only_…friend he'd ever made.

xxxXXXxxx

Sherlock Holmes had finally learnt to be sorry. He was sorry he'd ever met John Watson, because John was dead because of him, and Sherlock would see the world burn for what it had done to them.

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><p><strong>Reviews are very, very welcome! I have no idea where this fic came from, since I hate death!fic...It was just crying out to be written.<strong>

**If I have a good enough response (ie. my characterisations aren't complete rubbish and what-not) then hopefully I can convince my muse to write something a little more upbeat next time :-D**

**Thanks for reading!**


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